


Drenched Butterfly

by rumithe



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: A strong suggestion that you read with the given bgm lists, Angst and Romance, Artist ! Markus, Fluff and Angst, Human AU, I will try my best to balance the story with the real facts of those years, M/M, Markus POV third person, Milan Kundera references, Nude Model ! Simon (just for one chapter), Original Character POV first person (in the very end), Simon POV first person, Simon is homeless and Markus took him in, The story is set at the beginning of this century
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27893587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumithe/pseuds/rumithe
Summary: Markus Manfred, an unknown painter to the world, met Simon Philipps at an open studio when the latter came to do the nude model for one night in attempt to pay the rent. After Simon gave Markus a clumsy blowjob, the painter realised the man kneeling in front of him was his butterfly of life.
Relationships: Captain Allen/Simon mentioned, Markus/Simon (Detroit: Become Human)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	1. butterfly

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Drenched Butterfly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23575297) by [rumithe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumithe/pseuds/rumithe). 
  * A translation of [Drenched Butterfly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23575297) by [rumithe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumithe/pseuds/rumithe). 



> ① This is a work under being betaed. A friend will help with the final version but so far I've tried to manage the words as understandable as possible without taking many aesthetical sentences I've put into the original one in my own language. So far in the Chinese version 15 chapters are finished, I will translate them one by one, and if the beta version is finished I will replace the raw version with it and note it down at the beginning if it is the beta version.  
> ② I don't quote some spoken words by the characters deliberately. I have no idea how much bad influence it may have for the readers to recognise them, so I just put them in italics them for the moment.  
> ③ There're quotes in the fic (mostly from "Life is elsewhere" by Milan Kundera), and I have them in italics and bold.  
> This fic contains content about graphic depiction of sex and violence, and Markus/Simon would split up later (pretty late) to serve the logics of plots and their personalities. But they were each other's love of life til the end.
> 
> This fic contains three parts: Markus' POV third person (most of it, around 20 chapters), Simon's POV first person and the last will be one outsider's POV first person.
> 
> Some private settings in this fic:  
> 1.Simon and Daniel were twins.  
> 2.It's an Human AU, and the story is set around the beginning of 21st century.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment the painter lay eyes on him, he knew he was extremely new at this: the stiff and tweaking movements as he stripped, an embarrassed flush to his body under the eyes of the small crowd, and also the moment–the fleeting unease when he was finally completely naked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bgm: "One." by Goldmund

Thanks to @Phrensiedom for doing the beta for me :D！

* * *

Markus Manfred met his first-ever lover the day before his 21st birthday.

It was seldom dry in the summer in Detroit, but he sensed something unusual on this night: his hands began to sweat right when he grabbed the brush, and the colour-stained white shirt brought him intolerable discomfort as it adhered to his body.

This was the only studio he could afford, and he received a discounted rate by renting at night. Everything seemed murky in a room of less than 30 square metres, and it was suffocating being stuck in the circle of a dozen people. Even though the light was warmly orange, the colours he felt there were gloomily pale – as he could tell from the bottom of his heart. Other people’s breathing, was sometimes seemingly crystallised and came close at hand, but he tried not to look at anyone, focused only on his own painting and the model sitting in the middle.

There were two models, a middle-aged man and a young woman. He was always willing to talk with them which in his eyes was a way to create with emotions. But the man was rather quiet, and Markus knew nothing else apart from his being a truck driver, divorced, and with a daughter. However, he had more interactions with the woman, in terms of sexual connections.

They used to talk a lot in bed. Markus was entrusted with many secrets of hers, such as she had no proper job and smuggled Red Ice. She asked once if he needed any and offered him a discount, but he refused, as he believed he had not reached the stage where illusions became a necessity to keep him going on. 

He didn’t like her, let alone love her. They both knew that.

She told him that people stuck in gutters must support each other to survive, but they were not in the same gutter.

He could recall the last time they had sex: he felt suddenly nauseous halfway their intercourse because of the strong perfume she wore, so he fled to the bathroom with a careless excuse and later came back to find her trimming her toenails cross-legged by the bed. He knew there was nothing left to be done that night, and this friend with benefits never showed up again in the studio; when he tried dialing her, he discovered the number was no longer in service.

Not long after this vacancy arose, Simon came to him. The moment the painter lay eyes on him, he knew he was extremely new at this: the stiff and tweaking movements as he stripped, an embarrassed flush to his body under the eyes of the small crowd, and also the moment–the fleeting unease when he was finally completely naked.

All of this could be rectified soon, but that visage was indeed alluring: a very typical good-looking boys’ appearance; blond hair, azure eyes, but possessed of more gloom than passion, and much slimmer than the painter, who was once a quarterback in high school. Markus found it hard to look away from him within the first couple of minutes, and even the brush felt like a heavy rock to hold. The painter just studied this substitute and wondered how it would feel to caress him as he touched the blank paper. He had an unconscious erection but sensed the invading heat, which altogether made the summer in Detroit, in his memory, unbearably dry and hot.

The rest of the crowd left with their tools one by one as the night grew. Markus was always the last to leave. Sometimes he would think about those Red Ice addicts and realised that he himself simply resorted to another subtler way to elude reality.

The new model undressed himself slowly but dressed much quicker. Markus observed, as the man went to the studio’s owner, the way he closed the door was rather slight and gentle and gave Markus an image of an angel falling into the mire by accident.

Markus never eavesdropped intentionally, but he could not resist that night. He put down his brushes and snuck outside the room and leaned his ear against the door.

“……five nights in advance……you don’t understand……”

“You’re not the only one struggling……you’d better not push me with this……”

“……you promised me……I have to get it tonight……”

Markus saw no reasons why he would grin at this, maybe because he already heard the emerging anger and frustration in their conversation, but the voice of the new man was still soft.

How could such a man succeed against a cunning geezer in a meaningless fight like this?

The model failed as expected. Markus took a step back as he heard the approaching footfalls and waited to see him face to face and up-close this time. The other man was surprised to find that he was still accompanied, even startled, and he gave Markus an incredulous look and a hint that he was about to go. However, the painter gripped his hands suddenly and tightly.

From that very moment to decades later, Markus was convinced the reason why Simon stayed and went to the cramped bathroom with him was about money, but the latter thought it was such a vulgar angle, and he denied it.

A kiss was how it all began. Markus thought about nothing else. He guessed, during this impulsive attempt, the model would definitely push him away, but what he got was a rather obedient response, which led them to the bathroom right away. Markus kissed him deeper there while holding him with his terrifying desire and stroked the model’s hair as the other knelt and unzipped his pants after a couple minutes of silent teasing. 

He was even clumsy at giving a blowjob.

“Suck harder, use your tongue.”

He told him, fingers caressing that pleasing face.

“I like it more that way.”

Markus felt the exhaustion that day and regretted how he had grown accustomed to having sex with the woman, because when he realised he was about to cum, he didn’t even give the new model any warning and released right in his mouth. Sensing the strange liquid, the new model let go immediately but did not expect there would still be more, which all came onto his face eventually.

The painter heard himself cursing, but seeing the man kneeling in front of him, tainted by the smells and liquids of lust, was even more exciting. Nevertheless, he did not continue, as he could tell the owner of the beautiful face was genuinely pissed off this time. He expressed his anger by simply freezing, his mouth half-opened, in a daze, as if it were someone else who had a stranger’s cum all over his face

Markus hoped he would truly show his anger, like everyone else, so he would not feel guilty – anger during sex needed no answers, even the personal insults and physical injuries could be justified. He was never bothered by being an asshole. It was nothing to him.

But at last, he just pulled the model up from the floor and cleaned the mess for him with his handkerchief.

“Spit it out, I’m not gonna help you wipe it from inside there.”

It was unbelievable for him that one could be trapped in a daze for such a long time.

The painter often recalled this night when they were so close for the first time in later days; their intimacy in that crowded, dirty, little bathroom, where a bathtub of delicate size served as a container for painting tools and where the windows were permanently stained with carelessly poured turpentine that had become sticky and an unpleasant yellow, where unfading paint was found everywhere on the pool and toilet. The ventilation was bad too, but he was not disgusted by the annoying mixed smells of varied liquids.

Maybe he was too young then, as he kissed the model again without thinking twice. They shared his cum in the mouths, and he cupped the model’s face so tightly that their breathing entwined into one, as fierce as every time when the painter’s desire arrived. 

He sought tenderness, and he was satisfied.

“Do you need money?”

The painter asked as he slightly pinched the model’s neck and his breaths lingered on those wet lips.

He knew they both sweated, and this realisation brought the illusion they were already in bed, naked and cuddled. The model tried to avoid him by looking away, but he was not aware how much his shyness and uneasiness, indicated by the flush on his neck and ears, were made obvious to the painter. Even the sounds of his deliberately restrained sniffing were too clear to be hidden.

“How much do you want?”

Markus was very close to him; two pairs of eyes gazing at each other in the swaying dim light.

“If you think you haven’t earned enough, ten dollars for a kiss. I will pay for the kisses, as many as you want.”

It was at this moment when the painter finally began to feel his skin. It was fair, but not smooth, and he could see veins under this vulnerable protection, which could not be found admiring from four metres away in the studio. It could only be felt carefully by sensitive fingers and devoted surveying. Markus thought he could see the detailed construction of this body, whose owner was held by him now through these veins, but he did not know him at all, even his name.

“You are like a paper, absolutely blank.”

He did not realize he had spoken his mind aloud.

The painter was pushed away before another kiss, and those hands were placed on his shoulders, though he could feel they were not quite comfortable, even their owner did not dare look him directly in the eyes.

“If you really had that much money, you wouldn’t be here at all.”

“I will have my birthday tomorrow. I would like to spend some money.”

“On a couple of kisses?”

Markus was obviously being refused, but he still insisted on holding onto the model’s hand with his pinky.

“I can buy a lot.”

The model smiled, and the painter recognized how beautiful he looked when he smiled, something that remained pure amidst the filth of everything.

“You are unbelievable.”

The model gave him a slight kiss by the ear with a perfunctory “happy birthday” before the painter was finally let go, then he turned around and left as he was arranging his clothes, whose colours were already fading.

Markus thought about him as he was heading home on the street by late midnight, and he was soon filled with regret that he did not even ask for a name. Maybe if he had, he would have found a good enough excuse to leave the studio with him. The desire to know everything about the model was washed away when they kissed in the bathroom, but when he was back in bed, this thought troubled him and kept him awake almost all night long, sexually aroused again.

He struggled for a calm dream until early morning. He saw the model: they cuddled each other in a dark and depressing suffocation, gazing at each other in silence. He saw those azure eyes blinking at a calm pace, and by then a strange analogy occurred to him: he felt it was a butterfly spreading its blue wings, the edges giving off a rare glow. It eventually flew into his heart, bringing him endless itching until he finally woke up but with pains caused by unsatisfied desire.

He got up around noon, put on an emerald shirt and grey jeans after washing up, then headed to the flea market nearby with a delusion he would run into the model again. He was not that lucky, though he still found what interested him: a DVD of a European film from the 70s and a couple pieces of flawed boxwood. He would go to the park and talk to people he bumped into if this was any other day, but he instead went straight back home. The first thing he did was take all his tools and start to carve a figure of that little, beautifully-annoying insect that had been troubling him all night long.

He had not planned on going to the studio, but he changed his mind in the hope of meeting that model again. He wanted to meet with him as much as he could, and this time he would at least ask for his name before letting him go so easily. He found the smallest piece of wood he’d bought that afternoon, but he would frequently forget the time once he started creating something. When the butterfly was finally crawling out from the cocoon, he found it was already rather dark outside, he had forgotten to eat as well.

He rushed out for the studio without his coat or any of his painting tools. The wooden figure inside his pocket hurt occasionally as he was riding, but he didn’t care, so focused on seeing the model again. He had no idea the one pure existence he’d been searching for was not in the studio but just one block away.

Rather, it was the middle-aged man. Markus knew for sure he was tired. His eyes were telling, a lifeless pair that seemed to stare at everyone in the studio and said, “I’m pissed off! I’m bored! Stop painting, and just let me go!”

Markus smelled sweat, but no one seemed to notice about the middle-aged man’s eyes, and no one wanted to say anything.

It had to be about last night, and there would not be a second night for their reunion.

Markus figured it out, and the frustration rising inside almost urged him to go to the studio’s owner and give him several hard slaps across the face while telling him what a dumbass he was. But he just shrugged, glanced at the bathroom in the corner, and left.

He filled up his belly with a taco on the way, and when he was back home, he put the disc into the player to see if it would disappoint him again like last time – it was still the same, it stuck after several minutes of smooth playing and then was ejected.

Markus was over it long ago.

He went to sleep early that night. He took a shower at eight and crawled into his small single bed. The bookmark was at the same place as last month in the book placed beside the pillow, and the painter opened it, reading the lines he had highlighted before.

**_It occurred to her that the love the painter felt for her could only be the result of a misunderstanding, and she sometimes asked him why exactly he loved her. He would answer that he loved her as a prizefighter loves a fragile forget-me-not, as a singer loves silence, as an outlaw loves a village schoolteacher; he would tell her that he loved her as a butcher loves the timorous eyes of a heifer or lightning the idyll of rooftops._ **

Before he was recognised, he would not label himself as an artist, even though he knew that in some sense, art was not to be bound by mortals, but the so-called illusions were to be conceived and born from reality. If he really let himself go and despise everything around him, maybe he would become aimless, flammable, and pathetic, let along talking about life and art.

Before the exhaustion defeated him, he took a final look at the butterfly figure beside the pillow. He thought to himself, “Fine, this is my fault. But there is not always a chance for ‘what if I…’. Let me forget all about you when I wake up.”

He had a good sleep, like every birthday he had had in the past twenty years, but this time he dreamt about kisses, a lot of them, cheap but soft.

**-tbc-**


	2. encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A voice told him to stop, and told him to get into the lane – there was no reason, but he understood it later that if he didn’t follow, he would miss everything in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bgm: "One." by Goldmund

Thanks to @Phrensiedom for doing the beta for me :D！

* * *

At the age of 21, Markus Manfred had never thought he would get involved in a Red Ice deal one day.

There was a shortcut from the studio to his community, but it took him through a pretty chaotic downtown. He would never take the shortcut as he knew clearly how Red Ice business was run there, so severe even the local police precincts had almost given up on it – One should never view the detention of a whole neighbourhood as its salvation, should one?

He believed it was destiny, or he would never have thought about stepping foot in such a place, nor would he have bumped into the transaction occurring down the alley.

There was no reason for him to stay – he’d had to rush back home to fetch the painting he had told himself millions of times to bring to the gallery but still had grabbed the wrong one. He had to get the right one to the gallery before the night ended. The painter would never let a chance of showing his talent slip away and constantly dedicated his works to the very kind of general exhibition where dozens of paintings from unknown artists were shown together. Perhaps one day he would have someone recognise him, and after that, he could have his works shown in a separate room, just for him.

A voice told him to stop and turn into the alley – there was no reason for it, but he understood later that if he hadn’t followed, he would have missed everything in his life.

Markus immediately knew who it was when he caught the sight of him from the back. seemed even paler than the first time they met, as if he were something that could be easily blown down by the night-wind – much like a piece of paper. He was facing the strong streetlight so he literally became just a silhouette. In addition to that, Markus noticed he was carrying a big, old suitcase.

Before that man could take the several packs of Red Ice handed to him, Markus dashed out from the shadows and dragged him and his luggage along as he ran away.

When they were almost out of downtown, that man shrugged him off and fell to the ground, panting for breath.

“What’s wrong with you?” The blond man grasped a handful of gravel and threw it at Markus, which was nothing, in fact, and exposed his frailty to the painter. “Was it your 7th birthday the other day or what?”

He didn’t look infuriated at all, and Markus could even capture a bit of joy from escaping hell on his face. The painter was always good at discovering people’s more complicated emotions by examining their visages – both of people he cared about and didn’t care about.

“You would rot here if you took that business. The police might not bother, but it would be recorded, and when you finally got out of here, this world would not forget it.”

This was what his former friend with benefits told him.

“This world never forgets.” That man looked away and breathed much more calmly. “Just let it count my crime.”

But you? No, and you should never be like this.

Markus heard those words inside him and stretched out his hands to pull the man up, for he was quite sure he would not make it by himself. While the truth told the painter he was not even capable of staying awake; he passed out the moment he raised his hand.

There was no other way. The painter carried the man (who might still feel something) back to his apartment, along with the big suitcase. He settled the man on the sofa and turned on the light, and he could finally see the time on the electronic watch that told him it was already half past nine.

He was not much upset, though, as the only thing on his mind was removing the model’s dirty clothes and washing them as quickly as possible, and he should move the man to the bed for a tighter sleep. But he was afraid that he would receive an instant bite for his efforts, so he took the blanket and put it on the model.

The rise and fall of the body had become more stable, and its owner gradually curled up as he dreamt, which made Markus think about how an infant dwelt in its mother’s womb. He looked so exhausted, so desperate, yet so spotless, even though there was still sand on him – there must have been no other way for him to survive, so he resorted to smuggling Red Ice. Markus knelt carefully beside him and gazed at him; the model’s brows released their frown and his body relaxed when the painter stroked his sideburns.

“You must have some stories to tell, right?”

Markus was never the kind of person who would take advantage of others when given a chance, despite the fact that several weeks before, he had been so close to this man, and they almost had a complete physical interaction in a small and smelly bathroom.

That man woke up by early morning, while Markus was painting something in the living room – a group of flying butterflies in the rain. The painter heard footsteps in his exhaustion, but he sensed it regardless of how light they were – like a rookie thief, or maybe a cat? He knew it was neither of them, it was the man he had brought home, and the man that sank him into an infinite reverie.

The only light came from the tall floor lamp. When the model appeared in front of the painter, his visage was partly within the diminishing night; his gentle eyes became blurry and his pale fingers were like moving shades of colour as they climbed onto the doorframe. 

Markus remembered _A Woman Bathing in a Stream_ by Rembrandt, and he envisioned a saggy white gown on the man.

The model was still confused, but he already understood what had happened.

Markus told him that he could find something to eat in the fridge, but found it funny the moment he spoke, as he remembered how little stock he had there. They were both miserable, and the painter was just a bit luckier and still had a place to live in.

“Why have you brought me back?”

“I could not bear leaving you there alone.”

He put down the brush and glanced at the dancing blue on the canvas once before he came to those gentle, watery eyes. He had both love and lust coming at him at the same moment but succeeded in killing the urge to rush to him and fuck him hard against the doorframe. He took a slow and deep breath before he could speak with a rational mind again.

“You can stay with me until you find another place.”

“You might not know now, but you’ve just brought home trouble.”

 _Really?_ Markus saw the forced smile on his face, a smile that looked more like mockery of the painter’s innocence. However, he could never know how much ecstasy Markus had felt at the moment he found him, like a child who has found the most precious of gems in a treasure hunt.

“So what trouble would you bring me?”

The model’s face had cleared by then.

“Debt collectors, increased expenses, sharing everything.”

It occurred to Markus that libido was visible, no matter if it was from someone or for someone; the terrifying and dazing urge to possess someone right away…he found the traces of such an urge everywhere on the model, which pushed him to stand up. The model understood, so he held still until the painter came within an inch of him. 

Markus felt his hands trembling, but calm returned when he started to caress that face. It was like the first dream he had about him: maybe it was not in the bathroom, maybe it should be here when they were gazing at one another exactly like this. The skin he once felt was not perfect, but now, it was soft, warm, and told the painter how alive he was.

So soon, their breaths became one.

**_Their coming close to each other was always a surmounting of otherness, and the instant of embrace was intoxicating just because it was only an instant._ **

****

_Is this that instant?_

He wished this instant to be forever. Thus, in the reluctance to leave the model’s breaths, he made his attempt by delaying their kissing. 

“Is it so? Maybe I’ve brought myself joy, company, a muse.”

He bit the blond man's upper lips.

He felt the subtle change in the model’s breath, and he was even aware of the other’s erection when they pressed so close together; but that also meant his desire was revealed, too, wasn’t it? Nevertheless, Markus did nothing but continue that kiss before desire carried both of them away.

He stopped when he felt the model stroking his desire and gripped those clumsy hands.

“Eat something.”

The painter knew he was embarrassed about being stopped.

“But don’t eat this.”

“I gotta do something in return.”

His fragility, anxiety, and hesitance were all enchanting to the painter.

“You know, the trade I talked about in the studio the other day, it still holds.”

He caressed the model’s face as gently as he caressed his own work.

“And in addition to that, lovemaking also earns you money…or eating, of course, going to bed, getting up…”

“You are either a moron or planning something.”

“Maybe I am, but I don’t see the problem here.”

“For what reason?”

“No reason at all.”

**_Love is either crazy or it's nothing at all._ **

**-tbc-**


	3. upward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They could never guess each other’s dream, but it was the first time over these years for the model to have a tight sleep, for his dream was like that canvas still on the easel in the living room that had not been touched once that night, was totally blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bgm: "One." by Goldmund

* * *

Markus Manfred didn’t ask for his first-ever lover’s name until a week after their started to live together, and his first-ever lover never meant to mention it either.

He decided to stop going to the studio. After all, he had got tired of drawing about that middle-aged man and now he had one whom he was keen to know about. And certainly, to some extent, it was also a compromise to the model since he refused to sleep on the painter’s bed. They agreed that on workdays, the model would sleep on the single bed by nights when Markus painted; by five in the morning, the model would get up and leave the bed for him. The model tried finding a new job by day and the painter slept until five by afternoon. A dinner that arrived three hours earlier than it usually did was the only meal they would share. Markus didn’t mind much about a life with days and nights reversed, since he’d led such life for a long time in the past. Markus would occasionally go to the kindergartens and taught the kids there how to draw, and this was the only other source of money beside selling his paintings.

He dared to try, and this trying had a lot of types too. For example, he wanted to make portraits of a same person respectively before, when and after he knew about him or her. They seldom turned out absolutely same in the end, and he believe that this company he had now held back a lot of things which he could tell about. He would never force him of course, and he could wait. Before that, he would happily settle for keeping drawing about the very first portrait.

They kept the deal that seemed to be a joke. After eating bread almost all the time for a week, the model could not take it anymore, went to the living room right away after he got up. Markus easily found about him, no matter how slight his footsteps were.

He kissed the painter five times without saying anything, leaving his explanations after this sudden intimacy.

“If we keep doing this, I’ll still die of malnutrition along with you.”

He reached out his hand. Markus never hated his honesty, took out some cash with paint on them, in total of 60 dollars, from his backpack lying beside the stool and put them into his palm.

_Kiss me one more time._

The painter knew that his own green eyes were also attractive.

The model had to make that kiss happen, and he admitted that it felt good to kiss Markus, who was far better at kissing than him. He was infatuated by the sixth kiss when Markus used his tongue in a very tricky way, but it also occurred to him at the same time whether this painter had a lot more lovers, he just had not known about them yet.

The painter was woken up by the aroma of real food. His stomach gave out a weird long noise when he opened his eyes and therefore realised he had not had a good meal for so long, let alone picking up a scent like in his apartment.

Markus washed up a bit before he went to the delicate open kitchen and saw the model who was by then cooking. He looked somehow rusty to this, but still got the hold of arranging the ingredients. Also, he was too focused to know that the painter was standing behind him for some time.

The painter leadened his footsteps in attempt of making him realise about his existence there, so as to avoid scaring him when he came to hold him from behind. He sensed lust when he tightened his arms around the model’s waist and thought about those one-night stands he’d brought home before: by now they should be already stripping each other off, but none of them would come over his place to make a meal.

At last he just held him quietly, letting the desire between his legs burn him into ashes, only

his pathetic continence left.

_What did I tell you? Maybe you are a desirable burden._

The model laughed. This was the first time he did it after he settled here: it was frivolous and a little sly too.

_It was your money anyway._

_Well, you earned them, didn’t you?_

The painter felt he was almost out of control, as his hands already unconsciously reached into the model’s shirt. He didn’t get refused, and he was even given a hint that he was permitted to continue. He put his chin on his shoulder, smelt not only the cooked mushrooms but also his burnt mind.

They started kissing. The way the model expressed his own desire at the beginning was always something like crying, and then it would go unstable. He knew only about constant, endless tenderness in all the tactics and he knew nothing fierce or excessively lubricious like Markus’ old friends with benefits did. He would never scratch the painter’s back and nominally curse each other with insulting words when they were both lost.

_I, I can’t leave it burning._

The model was the first one to detach from this kiss.

The painter found out the tears there when they had their cheeks against each other. He got excited as well as guilty from his ignorance about the reasons for those tears, and he knew he misbehaved…But it was too mysterious and too enchanting – He couldn’t wait what kind of a person the model was exactly, and realised that he still didn’t even know his name.

_What’s your name?_

He felt that he had never been suffering for so long like this in silence.

_Simon._

A breath escaping; lips kissing each other.

 _Simon_. The painter whispered this name when he was kissing the model’s neck.

_And what’s yours?_

He could feel his pulses.

_Markus._

_Alright._

They kept the silence at the table, it was not that serious though, because Markus was good at observing people from a secret view. If he did it too obviously, perhaps Simon would be too scared to eat at all. He loved to use all his senses, for example: he tried to figure out the slight moves the models made through the table when he put down the utensils and picked up his mug, or he secretly peeked at Simon out of the corner of his eyes when he pretended to look outside the window, or he captured that strange floral fragrance mixed in the Bolognese sauce, or he tried to catch his breaths in silence like this.

“It’s raining outside.” The painter saw the falling rains, glimmering silver.

“It is.”

Markus got an excuse to look at him: his red lips, his eyes looking down but still bright and his softer facial outline under the white light.

Simon came to take a shower after the dinner. Markus knew he should go to the living room and take his tools out, but he could not ignore this lingering sense of intimacy after they exchanged their names. He walked to the bathroom and heard the sounds of pouring water there which was just like how it rained in the outside world, but eventually, he stopped as he touched the knob.

He listened carefully and tried picturing how Simon looked like there. What if he was drenched by the rains out there? He could imagine how helpless this man was before he took him home, and he could even remember there was a heavy rain in Detroit between their two encounters. Where was Simon on that day? He had never seen him cry yet - Despite that he kissed away Simon’s tears after they canoodled in the kitchen. Was he that kind of person who was so vulnerable that could only resort to tears when sadness struck?

At some moment during his meditation, the sprinkler was turned off. The painter still remained there and tried to make out how the blond man dried his body and hair and put on his underwear and the painter’s long shirt. And he would smell like cheap bath foam.

He calculated the time and asked when he felt right.

_Can I come in?_

The model opened the door with water dropping from his hair. They didn’t have a hair dryer at home, because the painter disliked his inborn hard, curly hair and would shave them off every month. 

Simon was wearing a white shirt and shorts that were apparently a bit bigger and had heating vapour coming from his fragrant body. The eye contacts with the painter made him nervous, so he avoided further conversations with an eye hint, made his way for Markus.

The vapour seemed to have cover something up, but Markus failed to figure it out this time.

The painter would not have expected that his body was ever hotter than the water, and he almost thought he forgot to pay the water bills. They seemingly wanted to extinguish the fire inside him, but Markus didn’t succeed in letting his desire go, and he made it worse when he rubbed himself.

He noticed two bath balls hanging on the recently polished pegs which he never bothered to care: one blue, one green; the blue one was used just now and let down a drop of water every couple of seconds. They must be here because of their kisses in the morning, and they somehow made here more like home.

The painter could not help but taking the blue one and sniffed it: there was nothing but the scent of that bottle of bath foam almost used up. Thinking that it was once closer to the body he adored, Markus realised he was in burning jealousy.

He could not recall the last time he used a bath ball.

It normally took him five minutes to finish a shower, but that night he spent half an hour there. When he came out from the bathroom, Simon was already reading a book on the soft: he was leaning on one side, lying on his elbow with his hand clenched loosely. 

He came to sit quietly beside Simon. It was the book he put beside the pillow; he forgot all about it when he drowned himself in creating.

He asked him where he was.

The blond man pointed at a line at the lower part of the page:

**_But when our own pettiness is suddenly revealed to us, where do we flee to escape it?_ **

The painter pointed at the next line:

**_From debasement the only escape is upward!_ **

_I can find nowhere upward._

Simon gazed at him with those azure eyes, smiling, but he was also trying to hide his confusion which was easily detected by the painter.

_Art is upward._

The model fiddled with his collar and turned to look at the easel standing quietly in the middle of the living room.

_Then you’re lucky. For me, art is never an option._

He started to strip already. The body under the clothes seemed a lot healthier than it was the second time they met.

_Even if it was an option, people would talk me out of it._

His smile was pleasing, but he himself was not pleased.

Markus gripped his hand, a result of an impulse. The model looked at him in surprise but still tolerated him for doing such thing.

_I won’t talk you out of it._

The painter leaned himself onto this man unconsciously. He fretted, his breathes sounded like growls, as a sign of losing control. He was like a tomcat in its mating period, approaching its desirable prey aggressively by all means, but he became sober as he touched Simon’s lips. He was far better than an animal, and when he lowered his head against Simon, he simply left a peck there.

But right away, there was a second peck, then the third one, the fourth one…and the last one became a real kiss.

Markus didn’t dare to hold him by the waist until he put his hands on the painter’s shoulders. He was already burning in desire by then, but in the hope of staying conscious, he didn’t want to scare Simon away again.

He pressed his fingers on the model’s erection, and got to hear the pant he’d been longing for the whole night.

He asked him if he wanted to fuck on the sofa or on that packed single bed which was more comfortable.

Simon’s hesitance was always a reason for him to panic.

_You have sex with a lot of people?_

_I did, but now, no._

_I hadn’t had it for a long time._

Simon looked straight into the painter’s ardent eyes this time.

_I don’t look good in nude._

_Bullshit._

Simon didn’t hesitate, he took off the shorts which perfectly covered his thighs, where the painter found some several scars under the pale light. They looked lighter than the skin and slightly stood out. The pain accompanied as he started at them.

“I did a lot of make-ups there in the studio, these days, too.” Simon took advantages of the silence of the painter and unburdened himself of everything in his mind, “I thought you’d find out.”

“But now I only want us to be honest with each other.”

Markus frowned as he gently touched those scares.

_I don’t know anything about art. I barely finished high school, couldn’t afford college, never took a driving test, didn’t even buy myself life insurance and I’ve got loads of debts to pay…You want a company, but I’m not what you are looking for. I might have no idea about what you’d be talking about. There’s nothing interesting about me, just this face, maybe. But I was born with it. I know you love things that are beautiful and pure, but I am not like that. You don’t know anything about me, have no idea what I did. You would soon regret taking me in before long and think that maybe you should have left me there with those Ice dealers…_

_I’ve got jobs now. I help in the kitchen at a restaurant by day, do the model thing at night and after that I work in the cleaners until morning. It all starts by next Monday, so you can live a bit normally. If I come back finding you still asleep, I’ll just sleep on the sofa…I did the math, I will no longer be your trouble after at most three months. I cook for you, do the housework for you, and I will give you some money back when I leave. I won’t take advantages of you._

_If you want to have sex, it won’t be a problem. I will satisfy you as long as I’m not too tired to fuck. You were too kind to me, so I don’t want you to think I’m a heartless person, I know the rules…_

The painter didn’t take any actions after he poured this all which made him a little embarrassed, so he stood up and walked into the middle, stripped quickly and tried to get attention from the person in silence on the sofa.

_Now you don’t speak. Maybe you’d like to paint. That’s where you can go upwards, isn’t it?_

Markus came to hold him in arms before he got cold by the biting air sneaking inside caused by the rains. He stroked the scars on his thighs; the suppressed desire was obvious there in his green eyes though, only not that pressing.

_So many secrets._

The painter was so close­ to him that the drastically beating heart in this body could be clearly felt.

_I’ve got only one to tell you._

Their lips were leaning on each other, but the model firmly shut his mouth in attempt to avoid being influenced by physical intimacy.

_I’m in love for you._

The painter got his tongue in when his model opened the mouth to gasp from shock, but model himself would not see that he could not put a stop to their passionate kissing, until he finally cried out, broke down totally because of those old stories buried within him that he would never speak about, and his only salvation was the warm hug from the man standing in front of him and the man who had just told him he loved him.

It took a while for Simon to wake up from his memory, and he said, Markus, take me to your bed.

_That packed, sturdy bed?_

_Yes, that packed, sturdy bed._

The panting in the small bedroom went to ease as well as the rains outside by midnight, and the heartbeats in darkness finally became calmer. There on the small single bed, the two held on to each other and let the tiredness took all their thoughts away.

They could never guess each other’s dream, but it was the first time over these years for the model to have a tight sleep, for his dream was like that canvas still on the easel in the living room that had not been touched once that night, was totally blank.

-tbc-


	4. an artist's love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He remembered what he said out of impulse last night: maybe he was indeed in love for the model, for a reason he himself had no idea about. He knew only that he could keep painting, as long as they were together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bgm: "One." by Goldmund

The lovers in the small appartement woke up together by early morning and kept their silence in the dim light of the waking day.

The painter pulled his companion’s leg around his waist and gently stroked the scars that indicated the staying pain of the past under the quilt. He lay a kiss on the model’s eyelids where he could feel the eyelashes’ touching his lips when Simon blinked – he felt like he was kissing a butterfly that began to fly again after the rain.

_So rarely I’ve seen something so beautiful and real._

The painter tried to paint his outlines in the air.

_I really don’t know why you are attracted._

The timidity the model held didn’t get him away from those loving touches, and at a sudden moment during this intimacy, he sensed pains inside him.

_You know, the poets actually know there’s nothing that stays forever, so they find their forever in one moment._

They started to loosen each other from their arms, and by then the model asked, “What exactly do you believe I can give you?”

The painter got up from the bed and took the blond man to the living room when they were both absolutely naked. The light that shone from the outside world somehow seemed brighter and warmer. It came in from the window high on the wall and fell on the easel that stood in the middle of the room.

_I like pictures like this. You can feel you are surrounded by the darkness and there’s probably no escape…but still, you have a light here. And when you capture its existence, you also capture your own existence._

He came up and put the easel aside. Kneeling under the leaked-in sunlight, he lowered his head, bent himself at 45 degree-angle and placed his hands onto the other’s shoulder, and he looked even sanctified when his brown skin was embellished by the light spots.

It was by then that the model finally realised how excellent the painter’s body looked and how unbearable the urge it was from him to make an analogy of his visage with a statue in Ancient Greek time.

_What are you thinking about now?_

_I’m thinking that why you’ve kept shape like this when you ate bread and chicken rolls all the_ _time._

The painter let out a laugh.

_I told you I don’t understand art._

The model felt embarrassed by his ignorance.

_It’s okay actually. Art is nothing to do with understanding._

The painter remained as how he was.

_Or you can try to think about your feelings when you want to be in this position?_

_Pain._

_There’re a lot of kinds of pains, what’s yours?_

_Well…that kind of pain when I find that everything about me is a mess but I can’t do anything to change it._

The painter clenched his fists, putting them on both side of his forehead and lowered his body even more that his elbows were about to touch the floor.

_Struggles, but almost give up._

_So almost not give up either, is it?_

The painter stood up, not feeling any numbness at all for kneeling for such a period of time. The slight erection of his almost perfect genitalia got the model flush, and he faced the light with his feet apart, then reached out towards where the light escaped in.

_Looking._

_Looking for?_

_Hope._

_Do you think hope is good thing?_

_At least it sounds like one._

_In the myths, the young lady Pandora opened the box, letting out all the evils but locking up the hope. For what reasons, do you think?_

_Because it’s not like evils._

_No, but because it is the greatest evil of all…Because humans will rather sacrifice everything for that little glimpse of hope, because, they will rather go through all the sufferings in attempt of keeping it in their sight…So, what’s your hope?_

_I ain’t been ready to tell you that._

The model held his arms in the shadow.

The painter wasn’t disappointed by this answer. He relaxed his neck, then he pulled the sofa to the middle and wiped the dust up with newspapers.

_Come, lie here._

_For?_

_For me._

_Alright._

Right before Markus settled himself on the stool next to the easel, he saw that the model was covering his private parts, so he came up again to move those hands away in a gentle way and soothed this shy man to lie down, feeling the enchanting trembles caused by his sensitivity.

_Don’t be a prude. If we really should be ashamed by our nudity, then why does body art exist?_

What he wouldn’t tell the model was that he really enjoyed when touching his body, that he was fascinated by the little quivers in the breaths caused by the tension of this body. Even though he was seriously talking about some so-called lofty art, the more real thing that came to him was the burning desire between his legs. 

He lowered his head to kiss the scars on the man’s thigh.

_Find a comfortable position. It will take some time before I finish._

The way the model posed to him reminded Markus of the film years ago and a deliberate sexual tease was how it looked like.

This was not the first time he painted when being naked. Before Simon, those one-night stands would stay at his place and receive invitations like this too – or maybe invitation wasn’t quite the right word, since those people were always willing to be portrayed. They relished their nudes being seen and taken as an idea by an artist. They’d fling themselves at him, pose in a very sexually attractive way and wish for another round after he finished them. But all of these troubled the painter, so it always went like Markus handed the clothes that were rudely thrown on the floor in the corner the night before to them himself and gave careless spanks on their butt that was followed by a “Morning, see you next time”.

But there was never a next time.

It was the first time ever that he could manage every single of his strokes in a situation like this. It felt like he’d got the help from God to depict this man who was lying there still quietly as his command. He didn’t even have to sit right next to him to capture the soft blond hair on his skin.

The model’s words were still very clear and precise in the painter’s mind and he was actually right – he had no idea what a kind of person he was, this man who lay on his sofa. What he knew was his name and the harrowing history he was willing to reveal. Who wouldn’t like to be with their kindred spirit? But for this man whose name was Simon, he didn’t ask anything from him.

He remembered what he said out of impulse last night: maybe he was indeed in love for the model, for a reason he himself had no idea about. He knew only that he could keep painting, as long as they were together.

A man’s figure started to become clear on the canvas. The painter wanted to make his face recognisable, but still he held out.

**_Will you ever fall in love for an idea of a person?_ **

He somehow felt his heart aching at this which made him put down his brush and sneaked to the sofa, where he found that the model had already slipped into light sleep. And just like the night he took him in, Simon curled himself up.

He tried to touch his forehead, not expecting to wake him up.

_I’m sorry, but if it’s too warm I’ll just fall asleep._

The painter didn’t say or do anything but gazing at him under the sun – those azure eyes became hazel that felt clearer and naughtier, his beautiful high nose caused a shadow on one side, and his body hair vibrated as his heartbeat quickened for being sorry – or for something else they both knew very clearly.

He slipped his hand to the model’s neck and stared back at those confused eyes, knowing for sure that his chaos thoughts would not be understood by this person who spoke about worldly stuff he once detested more than anything.

_Does your three months still count?_

He found that all his emotions were carried away as the model looked aside with hesitance, feeling miserable as if he was kneeling on a plank full of nails.

_We are just taking advantage of each other, aren’t we?_

_Are we just so?_ The painter asked himself and knew he was angry at this fact, but what he did eventually was still stroking through those soft hair and spoke in his gentlest tone.

_I just want you to know that if you change your mind, I would love to have you here._

_Here as what?_

_Here as whatever you want us to be._

_Why do you ask me this now?_

The painter was also asking himself, “What’s the fucking wrong with you?” He had never shown a submissive attitude to anyone. He left home several years ago and led a life that other people would not even care to speak about. He would overuse his canvas and eat the same cheap brand of bread for a whole month until he threw up at the sight of it to keep this dignity. Art that kept him companied was noble, and for the sake of it he should never compromise to anyone, especially a person who were subdued by mediocracy.

 _Because I love you_ , said the painter.

_I will disappoint you, one day, I will…And on that day you will realise you give your love to someone who doesn’t deserve it._

The painter lowered his head and gave those lips he adored a light kiss that had nothing to do with lust.

_Then I will love you until that day._


End file.
